


But I, Being Poor, Have Only My Dreams

by TheBard



Series: What Dreams May Come [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cole is smarter than everyone else, F/M, Filling in the blanks between romance interactions, He totally knows, Headcanon, I have conspiracy theories about elves, Let's explore Fen'Harel's actual rebellion, Mostly about Solas, Slow Burn, Where Lavellan is finally asking important questions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-03-22 17:26:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3737344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBard/pseuds/TheBard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I have spread my dreams under your feet; / Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams." W.B. Yeats. </p><p>He can only hope she treads softly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Had I the Heavens' Embroidered Cloths

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Just a note on the title... The title of the fic and all of the chapters are lines from Yeats' poem, "Cloths of Heaven." It seemed fitting.

She falls from a hole in the world. 

Compared to what will come later, this is the least surprising thing about her.

She is Dalish and that is surprising. So rarely do her people venture into the world, let alone take steps that may change it forever, perhaps irrevocably.

He wonders if she dreams, lying there, tortured by the mark on her hand. Late in the night, when even the Seeker is forced to sleep, he steals into the prisoner's quarters and stretches himself out on the floor beside her. Had the area been secured, he would have tried sleeping at the ruins of the Temple to see what answers he might find there. Now, though, what remains at the Conclave is overrun by demons and too dangerous even for him. Instead, he settles down beside the strange Dalish elf who had been branded by the Veil and wonders if he perhaps can taste her dreams, find some hint of who she is and from whence she comes. In truth, if he could not see her chest rising and falling with each breath, he would think her dead. He closes his eyes and reaches out his mind, searching, but the Fade guards her secrets carefully. He catches only snatches, wisps of memory, and he has no way of knowing to whom they belong. A flash of green, the smell of the earth, the twang of a bow...fire...tears… searing pain… _kill the elf_ … - he gasps awake. That voice. 

He stumbles back to his room and thinks about leaving. He should go. Flee and find someone somewhere who can answer his questions. But the girl… The thought of her wrenches his heart. She is probably his best hope for answers and yet… can he wait that long for her to wake? The Seeker is growing restless. 

With shaking fingers he reaches towards his staff and curses that young girl for ever waltzing right into the heart of the mess he's made. Perhaps he would deal with her later, but he can't stay here now, he decides. With that he steals away from Haven as early morning brushes against the wound in the sky. Once more, Solas tells himself. One more attempt to seal the Breach. 

 

\---

She comes in a blaze of fire, flanked by the Seeker. _Fenedhis,_ she's a mage. He can hardly believe she's standing, let alone flinging fire at the demons pouring from the Rift. The thought draws his eyes suddenly to the green light burning in her fist. An idea strikes him. 

"Quickly!" he shouts, dispensing with all introduction and explanation. "Before more come through!" She seems to know what he wants even before he reaches for her and without a moment's hesitation she slips his hand into his and allows him to focus it towards the Rift. A blind hope, the last desperate attempt… but it works. 

In that moment he feels a shift in the turning of the worlds. It resonates to his core, as though the universe itself had coiled in the deepest parts of him, only to relax when she healed the tear in the sky. The sensation would drive a weaker man to his knees; as it stands, Solas barely manages to keep from staring at her in abject amazement before she turns to him. 

"What did you do?" Her voice is much gentler than he expected. 

"I did nothing," he says quickly, feeling Cassandra's eyes upon him. "The credit is yours." 

"Well, at least this mark was good for something," she mumbles, an attempt at levity, but he can hear the tremor in her voice, can see the way she holds her hand away from her, as though something diseased, foreign. 

"Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand," he explains quickly, equal parts uncertain if his words will help and vaguely worried he will reveal too much. "I theorized the mark might be able to close the Rifts in the Breach's wake." He forces a smile. "And it appears I was correct." The Seeker surges forward to exclaim about the possibilities, but he cannot tear his eyes from her. The elf looks back at him, hope dawning in her eyes, perhaps for answers he isn't sure he has. 

"It seems you hold the key to our salvation." He regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth. She sways slightly on her feet and all at once he can see the weight of this descending on her. He suddenly wonders where her clan is and why they sent her. This is only the beginning. He can see that realization building in her and in that moment they both understand: she is never going to see them again. He opens his mouth to say something more, but the dwarf chooses that moment to sashay into the conversation. The tension between the storyteller and the Seeker is palpable and Solas cannot help but smile when the elf asks Varric if he's with the Chantry. 

"Is that a serious question?" Solas ignores the following spat between the Seeker and the dwarf and turns to the elf. "I am Solas, if there are to be introductions." He makes an effort to keep his voice light. "I am...pleased to see you still live." 

"He means," Varric pipes up. "'I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.'" Her face brightens immediately into a smile. 

"I did not realize," she says. _"Ma serranas, lethallin. Emma Illyria Lavellan."_ Solas blinks, surprised at the sound of the elvhen words (most Dalish see his bare face and assume him to be lost, too removed from the forest to understand the old tongue) and at the ease with which she named him _lethallin._ Friend. 

"You are welcome," he says, cautiously returning her smile. "Illyria." 

\---

Charge with the soldiers, she says when they ask. He wonders if she notices the way Cassandra and Varric fall in line behind her as they make their way towards the Breach. He too is surprised by the implicit trust the Seeker places in her, but he brings up the rear of their little party nevertheless. 

They cut down the demons quickly and when the Rift can no longer spit them out, she tentatively raises her hand. "Solas…" He tears his eyes away from the Rift and realizes she's staring at him, eyes pleading for guidance. He gives an encouraging nod, ready to lend her his will if she needs it, and then with little more than a wave of her hand, the Rift closes, stilling the air back to silence. 

"You are getting quite proficient at that," he says, placing a hand on her shoulder as she almost sags with relief. The triumph is short-lived, however, as they progress into the Temple. So many bodies, charred and twisted beyond recognition. Solas senses the thinness of the Veil and feels it like a stone in his gut. 

_"Setheneran,"_ Illyria whispers. The word sends a chill through him. Land of waking dreams. 

"Yes," he murmurs. "I feel it too." Her eyes - grey, he realizes - are wide, her breath comes in short, staggered gasps, and Solas realizes that if they don't seal the Breach soon, the mark will consume her. 

"You can do this," he urges, leading her forward. "This Rift was first and it is the key. Seal it and perhaps we seal the Breach." She forces yet another smile at him and looks up, all the way up, at the hole in the sky. She doesn't seem convinced. He can feel her weakening, can see the green fire clenched in her fist burning her up from the inside. He wonders if it hurts; she hasn't complained yet. 

Without a word she reaches her arm up and, with a flick of her wrist, tears the Fade open. 

He tries to keep an eye on her while he battles the demons that pour from the Rift, but all he can see are flashes of fire and Illyria throwing herself into the thick of the fighting. She fights more like a warrior than a mage at times and he struggles to swallow his mounting distress as he watches her out of the corner of his eye. With a sigh he pushes his will out and around her, throwing a magical barrier over her and the Seeker while he's at it. No sooner has he cast the spell than her head jerks up and she flashes another brilliant smile at him, even as she's bringing her staff down on an enemy in a manner that is far more melee than it is magical. He wonders absently how she can so clearly feel his magic, even in the heat of battle, but he pushes the thought away and contents himself with a nod in her direction and renewing the barrier with another expulsion of will. 

Finally the Rift quiets, having exhausted itself of demons for the time being, and Solas screams, "Now!" 

And then, with a gesture, she seals another hole in the world.


	2. Enwrought with Golden and Silver Light

He tries very hard not to hover. Really, he does. But he can hear his magic branded on her, screaming in the Fade, and as she burns with fever, he wonders if his magic will kill her after all. The herbalist, Adan, insists on taking charge of the patient and allows no one near her. Because of the death threats, he says. People still blame the young elf for the tear in the world. How very human, Solas thinks, to try to destroy the only thing that can save them. 

So Solas steals away, back to his hut, and for three days, he tries to limit his pacing as he waits for her to wake. The feeling is familiar and when he goes to sleep each night, he wonders if he could find her in the Fade. Just to see if she's alright. He only has so much faith in herbs. Wandering that close to her is dangerous, though, he suspects. He can hear her crying in her sleep; who knows what monsters lurk in her dreams. With that thought, he closes his mind to her and busies himself with whatever books he can get his hands on. He does not hear her crying. Most definitely. 

\---  
For three days the Dalish girl tosses feverishly and for three nights she weeps, caught in the throes of some unknown nightmare. On the third night, in the depths of the darkest moments, Adan sits by, ready to give the young woman up for lost, when all at once she is silent and still. A look of unfathomable peace settles over her, her fever breaks, and for the first time since coming through the Rift, her sleep is peaceful. 

The next morning, she wakes. Adan wants to thank his elfroot, but deep down, he's not so sure.

\---  
The first thing she does after she wakes (well, after first being swept away by the Seeker, commander, and spymaster) is to come to him. He is gratified by the attention, but he imagines she simply is desperate for a familiar face amongst all the humans. 

_"Aneth ara,"_ he murmurs. Her face brightens immediately at the familiar Elvish greeting and for a moment the lines of worry and exhaustion carved into her face disappear. 

_"Aneth ara, hahren,"_ she replies. He starts at the title she so casually bestows on him. "It is good to see you, Solas." 

_"Ma serranas, da'len."_ For a moment, the world is whole and he is back with the People, surrounded by forests of green and magic as old as the world, and nothing is broken, nothing is shattered by pride or by sorrow; everything is fine. He wants to stay suspended in this moment forever. And then… "It is good to see you well." Her smile fades slightly and her eyes travel up and above him. He does not follow her gaze; he knows what troubles her. 

"I had the most terrible nightmares." _I know,_ the words almost leave Solas' mouth, but he keeps them to himself. "I can't remember what happened, but I keep _seeing_ things. I don't remember, the memories aren't mine, I don't…" She shakes her head and swallows whatever else she might have said. The silence that stretches between them is heavy.

"The Breach is sealed, but it's still _there,"_ she finally says. "Rifts are open all over the country. The shemlen war between the mages and templars still rages and suddenly I am a prophet of Andraste." The words spill out of her like a flood and Solas suddenly hates the humans for putting this on her...hates himself more for starting it all. 

"I don't think I will get to go home," she continues, interrupting his thoughts. She suddenly sounds very small. "I'm too dangerous now and I must make safe the world for my clan. But…" She shakes her head. "The Herald of Andraste? How can I be a Herald for someone I am not even sure ever existed?" Ah, at last they come to it. Solas had wondered how she would react to this new title the humans have bestowed on her. They don't deserve her, he thinks. 

"I just don't know, Solas." The pent up frustration continues to pour out of her, crashing like a wave against him. "The mark on my hand claims me for Andraste, but my vallaslin dedicates me to Mythal. I'm not built to be a hero. I don’t know how I got out of the Fade, I don't know what I am, I just… don’t know." Her words make Solas' heart ache and all at once he wants to reach out his hand and lift both Anchor and blood-writing from her, rid all the gods of the world of their claim to her; she was too good for them. 

"Would that I could offer you some measure of comfort, _lethallan,"_ he murmurs, when it seems all her worry is spent. "Know only that in you I see the makings of a hero far beyond these shemlen will ever understand. It is only up to you to determine what sort of hero you will be." She offers him a slow, wavering smile. 

"Am I riding in on a shining steed?" He chuckles. 

"I would have suggested a griffon, but sadly they are extinct." His heart feels lighter in the wake of her smile. 

"You are good to me, Solas." She looks down and shifts on the balls of her feet, suddenly seeming embarrassed. "I'm sorry to dump all of this on you; we hardly know each other. I just…" She falters and looks back up at him. "Had a feeling you would understand." For a moment, her eyes gaze at him so closely, Solas is certain she can see the wolf inside him. 

He tears his gaze away and looks out towards Haven. "I will stay, then. At least until the Breach has been closed." She frowns. 

"Was that in doubt?" 

He's not sure the answer to that. In truth, all his plans have been thrown into doubt now with the hole in the sky. He thought to strike out on his own to solve this problem himself, but now… 

"I am an apostate mage," he finally says, though the answer sounds half-hearted at best in his ears. "Surrounded by Chantry forces. And unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me." Illyria does not look satisfied by his answer. "Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution." 

"You came here to help me, Solas," she says, voice urgent, as though afraid he may yet still leave. "I won't let them use that against you." Once again, her words leave him dumbfounded. The ease with which she calls him friend, _hahren,_ someone worthy of respect, and puts him under her protection astounds him. 

"How would you stop them?" he asks, bemused. Conviction flashes in her eyes like fire. 

"However I had to."


	3. The Blue and the Dim and the Dark Cloths

Somehow she becomes their errand girl. Half Herald, half servant… he reasons they had to reconcile her Dalish heritage some way and sending her on little quests is the way to do this. If she objects to this treatment, however, she does not do so vocally. 

Instead of complaints, she has _questions._ Specifically, about him. He mentions offhand his journeys through the Fade and from that moment on she wants to know everything. 

She doesn't ask the normal questions though: "How do you not get possessed?" or “How do you fight off demons?" Instead she asks, "How do you fall asleep in ancient ruins?" and "What about the giant spiders?" That she considers earthly dangers more worthy of concern than spiritual ones does not escape him, but it does bewilder him. In exchange for her curiosity, he gives her stories as they make the long journey to the Hinterlands. 

He tells her the story of the matchmaker spirit, the gentle heart that nurtured love in an unsuspecting village. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth as she listens. 

"That reminds me of a friend of mine," she murmurs. They are walking far ahead of the rest of the group, out of earshot of their small party. Solas suspects they would not understand the nature of their conversation. 

"Oh?" She rarely speaks of her home amongst the Dalish. He wonders what she was like before...all this. For a moment, he imagines young Dalish girls playing matchmaker; innocent adolescents stealing kisses behind trees. 

"Well, he did not help our people find love," she clarifies. "But he was very good at directing good hunting our way." He. The warmth in her voice ignites a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"An admirable quality," he says, voice neutral. "Is he waiting back home for you? This...friend?" She shrugs, stooping quickly to pluck some elfroot from its stalk. 

"I expect so," she replies absently. "That forest is his home. He talks to it, you see. Whispers in its ears. Sends young mothers and their newborns away from the clan and directs older, stronger game towards us when it's cold. Of course, my clan never knew. But he is kind and patient. Hasn't left that forest in a thousand years." She stuffs the elfroot in her pack, fingers deftly untying the knots that hold it closed, unaware of Solas staring at her. 

"A thousand…" Was she talking about a…

"He calls me _fenris,_ 'little wolf,'" she continues, oblivious. Solas starts at the name. Everything she says sends his mind reeling in ways he never thought it could, not after all this time. 

All he can manage is, "Why?" 

"He tells me it is because I have a clever mind and a fierce love," she replies. "Worthy of a wolf." She is the first Dalish he's ever met to describe wolves in even vaguely positive terms. Their connection to Fen'Harel shrouds them in superstition and distrust. _A clever mind and a fierce love._ Once upon a time he would have laughed at her; now her words make his heart ache in ways he cannot name. He realizes too late that she's staring at him, a strange apprehension in her eyes.

"You don't think it's strange, do you?" she demands. "That I've made friends with a spirit?" This time he does laugh. 

"Hardly, _da'len_ ," he assures her. "The only friends I've had in a very long have been spirits." She cocks her head to the side - a movement so typical of her- and studies his face, like he is something very difficult to see. 

"The only friends?" she repeats. There's an odd note in her voice, one he doesn't understand, but she straightens quickly. "I am glad. My interactions with spirits in the Fade often...troubled my clan." Solas knows the feeling well. 

"It has been my experience among your people that new ways of thinking and interacting with magic are frowned upon and the people who do so are to be shunned and feared." She flinches and Solas realizes that somehow he's said the wrong thing. It does not make it any less true, but he wonders what she might have suffered at the hands of her clansmen for her open mindedness. It occurs to him that she's never challenged him on any negative thing he's ever said about the Dalish.

"My people," she repeats quietly. For a moment she looks sad and then her face closes off completely and any expression he might have read there is gone. "Come, I think I see a place to camp up ahead." 

\---  
That night she has nightmares. The whole party can hear her fretting in her sleep, but while she twists and turns, the Anchor burns bright in her fist, and no one has the courage to wake her. Even Solas keeps his distance. None of them really sleep, but no one complains the next morning as the exhausted party finds their way back to the road.  
\---  
When they reach Redcliffe, he can feel immediately that the world is wrong here. It's starting to become a familiar feeling. He can tell Illyria feels it too, but when they reach camp, she noticeably brightens. 

"It's so green here," she sighs. _Just like home._ The words hang silently between them, but their eyes meet and they understand. Spending so much time among the humans in their cities is exhausting. "I like being surrounded by trees." Solas hums his agreement, but frowns at the sound of wolves howling - screaming, almost - in the distance. Green the world may be, but everything is wrong. She catches sight of his expression and touches his shoulder lightly, before quickly taking her hand away, as if embarrassed at the contact. 

"We will fix it," she assures him. "We have to." She smiles - always, smiling - and shrugs. "Dread Wolf take us if we don't." The invocation leaves a strange feeling in his stomach, but he returns her smile anyway.  
\---  
That night he takes first watch. He settles back into a meditative pose, eyes open to the world while his mind wanders in the Fade. He prides himself on being able to keep one foot in the Fade, one foot in the world, but maybe he's getting old, maybe he's not as good as he thought, maybe… 

"Solas, are you happy?" The sound of her voice jolts him from his reverie and ignites fire in his hands. He extinguishes it quickly and takes a deep breath.

"If you would kindly announce when you materialize act of thin air," he says, shaking his head. "You may help me avoid setting the forest on fire." She flashes him a cheeky grin. 

"We can't have that." She studies him closely, tilting her head to the side, and places her hands on her hips. "So…?" It takes him a moment to realize what she's asking. 

"Happy?" What an odd question. "Why do you ask?" 

"Because sometimes I worry that you aren't," she says simply, as though it were obvious. Solas blinks, scrambling to find an answer. How was it possible to be so confounded by someone? How did she constantly leave him without words...without some semblance of his usual wit? Why did he have such a hard time answering. 

"No." The word slips out of his mouth before he's even truly thought about it. He tries to find a way to backpedal but his mind isn't working… why does she _care_? What does she hope to do about it? She doesn't even know… 

"I'm sorry," she says, face open and honest. He wants to find some hint of manipulation or motive, but he honestly has no idea what is going on. 

"Why?" is all he can ask. 

"I'm sorry you have to be a part of this," she clarifies. "I know it doesn't help terribly much, but I wanted to tell you that I am sorry that the world is like this." She pauses, thinking. "I am sorry my people have failed you. I'm sorry if you feel alone some times." 

For a moment, there is nothing between them but the weight of her words. Then… 

"Are you?" He doesn't know why he asks. He's not sure if he's supposed to care, but he does, so… "Happy?" He wishes desperately he could read the thoughts flickering behind her eyes. 

"Sometimes," she says at last. The answer surprises him. "Very often I wish I was back in my aravel, traveling with my clan. But… if I had to be anywhere, here at the end of the world, I'm glad to be here." 

Solas shakes his head, once again confounded by the strange elf before him. 

"I hardly understand you," he confesses without really thinking about it. She chuckles.

"I hardly understand myself sometimes." She pats his shoulder lightly before turning to leave. "I wouldn't worry about it too much." He snorts. He worries about everything too much. She withdraws and steps back towards her tent, but his fingers find themselves catching on her tunic's sleeve before he realizes what he's doing. 

"I am glad to be here too," he murmurs. She smiles and he falters. "In truth, I have enjoyed experiencing more of life…" His mind races. "To find more of the Fade." She raises an eyebrow. 

"How so?" 

"You train your will to control magic and withstand possession," he explains, not entirely sure where he's going with this. "Your indomitable focus is an enjoyable side benefit. You have chosen a path whose steps you do not dislike because it leads to a destination you enjoy. As have I. Here, at the end of all things, is the only place I could ever be." He's not sure what possesses him to say all this, and yet… It's true. He hadn't known what his choices would cost him, cost the world, but she had intercepted… she had interrupted the unmaking of the world. All would be lost if not for her.

"Indomitable focus?" The tone in her voice sends the wheels of his mind screeching to a grinding halt. The ghost of a smile plays around her lips. 

"Presumably," he says, returning with a smile of his own. "I have yet to see it dominated. I imagine that the sight would be… fascinating." She blinks, mouth slightly agape at his words, and for the first time, Solas feels as though the world has righted itself, that he's in control of this interaction and finally has thrown her off, but then… 

"Oh, _haren,_ I assure you…" She saunters back to her tent, winking at him over her shoulder. "It would be."


	4. Of Night and Light and the Half Light

He remembers the world being bright and full of wonder. He remembers magic that was already ancient even when the world was new, stalking through the world with eyes all seeing and so much laughter. He wonders how much his memories have been colored by nostalgia and the time he's spent sleeping, watching years slip away like water through a sieve. Mostly, these days he hopes for the survival of the world more than the status of the People. Sometimes he worries that all will burn and he with it.  
   
She worries about this too. He can tell, because it is often that her wanderings around Haven between errands find her at his little hovel, forever asking questions. Her questions have been challenging of late. At first she begins simply. "Tell me more about you. Tell me stories about the Fade." But the more they talk, the harder her questions become. "Are you happy? How do I save the world? Do you think we'll all get to go home?" Often, he doesn't know how to answer her. She used to come with questions about the Dalish, but after a few...disagreements, she asks about them less often now.  
   
Today she comes with a decision.  
   
"I'm going to approach the mages for help." He smiles slightly in approval and nods.  
   
"Very wise," he assents. "The mages have great power. They should be able to close the Breach." She seems relieved by his acceptance. He imagines she has already faced a great deal of resistance on this decision.  
   
"Would you come with me?" she asks. "I know I've been dragging you all over hill and dale, but I would appreciate your advice on the negotiations." He blinks, surprised, but secretly pleased by her consideration.  
   
"Of course." A thought occurs to him and his lips curl down in distaste. "What of Madame de Fer? Will you employ her...skills here?" She snorts.  
   
"Hardly," she replies, jerking her head towards the cabin across from his. "I'll be taking Dorian - who I just met and _still_ trust more than Vivienne - along with us." Solas' eyes flick to the swarthy, pompous gentlemen who took up residence just across from him. The Tevinter mage rubs him the wrong way, but he and Illyria had hit it off immediately. Many a time, Illyria's path takes her to his door, but just as often she wanders over to their new companion, talking endlessly about different forms of magic, the Imperium, and the Breach.  
   
"Our new friend seems to have a great deal of knowledge on many things." He tries and fails to keep the sarcasm from his voice. In truth, the Tevinter's opinions are as narrow-minded and skewed as any shemlen's he's come across thus far, but he figures now is not the time to rant. She cocks her head to the side - something he's starting to recognize as a sign that she doesn't understand something, but _will,_ whether he likes it or not.  
   
"Don't worry, _hahren,"_ she says, a mischievous smirk flitting around her lips. "You're still my favorite." She winks. "And anyway, we el- mages…" She falters. "Need to, uh, stick together." _We elves,_ she'd almost said. Almost in the same breath, she claimed and rejected kinship. He wonders why.  
   
_"Ma serranas, da'len,"_ he murmurs. "Stick together we shall, then." Her smile is quick and she ducks her head down before mumbling something about Leliana needing to speak to speak with her before she left and wandering off. He watches her walk away with a mixture of confusion and sadness and he thinks about loneliness.  
   
\---  
   
One moment she is standing before him, reaching for Alexius' amulet, and the next she is walking out of a void of smoke and green light, rage the like he has never seen before in her burning in her eyes. It is without pity or remorse that she puts the magister down, wordlessly beckoning to the Inquisition guards to take him away. She does not look at him, does not look at any of them. Even Dorian seems more somber than is natural for the usually jovial man and Solas cannot help but wonder what happened.  
   
\---  
   
She is very quiet for the rest of the journey back to Haven. For his part, Dorian is slightly more willing to explain what happened. Time magic and a Dark Future… an amazing opportunity to see the plans of their enemy… the Elder One. The wolf inside him growls at the pretensions to power, _his_ power. Still, a serendipitous opportunity. He says as much to Dorian.  
   
"Yes," the Tevinter agrees. "A great coup for us, really, but the Herald… Illyria, she…" He falters and glances up, eyes searching out the back of Lavellan, who had thus far spent most of their journey marching several yards ahead, out of earshot of their conversation.  
   
Well," he continues. "She had to make a difficult decision. And she had to watch all of you die for it. I expect that will haunt her for some time yet." Solas sighs heavily and tries to imagine this future. A year… believing her dead, blood and bone turning to stone inside him, then dying… after all this time, after all he is and used to be...just dying. He shudders at the thought.  
   
"That must have been hard for you both," he says after a while, though in truth he could not care less for how the Tevinter mage was feeling after the ordeal.  
   
"A ghastly ordeal, yes," he agrees, uncharacteristically solemn. "But harder for Illyria, I should think, than myself. She made the call, she has to live with it. I expect it is the culmination of everything she fears most… making a decision that costs the lives of those she cares about." That hadn't occurred to him, and for a fraction of a moment, he is glad Dorian is here.  
   
"I will speak to her," Solas says after a long moment. Dorian smiles, a trifle sadly.  
   
"Yes. I rather think she'd like that."  
   
\---  
   
The first thing she does, as always, upon returning to Haven is get swept away by the Seeker and her cohorts. The commander looks furious as he exits the Chantry and Illyria's steps falter somewhat at Cullen's thunderous expression.  
   
Before she is dragged away, Solas reaches out a hand and brushes it lightly against her shoulder.  
   
"Do not worry, _da'len,"_ he murmurs, shooting a withering look at their commander. "You made all the right choices." At his words, she visibly straightens, fire flashes in her eyes, and she turns on Cullen, jerking her head towards the Chantry.  
   
"Yes," she murmurs through clenched teeth, leaving Cullen to trail behind. "Yes, I think did."  
   
\---  
   
After her meeting with the "Big Four," as she often calls them, she marches straight towards the cluster of cabins that house her favorite mages. She takes a sharp right, skirting behind Dorian's house and surprising him. She grabs the Tevinter's hand quickly and drags him behind her towards Solas.  
   
"Ah, Herald!" Dorian grunts ,surprised. "Some mission for us, then?" She nods emphatically, grabbing Solas' wrist with her free hand. He stumbles after, confused.  
   
"Illyria?" he ventures. She doesn't respond. "Is everything alright?" She glances over her shoulder briefly and flashes him a smile.  
   
"Important Inquisition business," she announces. "In the tavern. Now."  
   
It turns out her "Important Inquisition business" means pounding back as many pints of ale as possible while Illyria rants.  
   
"I don't understand," she grumbles over the rim of her mug. "Half the time they treat me like a prisoner. Or a soldier." She grunts. "The other half of the time they treat me like I'm in charge. Make a decision, wrong decision. Do what I have to, but not good enough." The more she talks, the warmer the air around them gets, and Solas can see her aura swirling around her like a storm, angrier than he's ever seen her before.  
   
"He wasn’t _there."_ Her voice breaks on the last word and suddenly her aura is quiet again; the air is cold. "He didn't see. Commander Cullen and Seeker Pentaghast." She pronounces their names like an expletive. "Judging me after you died in the dark." The anguish in her voice is palpable. Dorian takes her hand and squeezes it gently, eyes bright and understanding. For a moment, Solas feels once again like an outsider, remote from whatever horror they had shared. He wants to reach out and touch her too, but he's not sure how. Not for the first time, he reminds himself, it's probably better if he doesn't.  
   
Suddenly he realizes she's looking at him, hard and close, far too sober for the amount of alcohol she has consumed. "Do you guys believe I am the Chosen of Andraste?"  
   
"Absolutely." The speed and certainty with which Dorian answers surprises all of them. Illyria cocks her head to the side, her expression unfathomable.  
   
"Why?" she asks. "How do you know?" Dorian shrugs and smiles easily.  
   
"All of this," he says, gesturing vaguely around him. "All of it… should be impossible. You -" He pokes his finger towards her. "Should be impossible. Yet, here you are. If not divine, then what else could you be?" She's quiet a long moment, chewing on that. Then, she takes a long swig of ale and turns her eyes on Solas.  
   
"And you, hahren?" she says softly, though her expression is guarded, like she knows what he is going to say. Solas frowns and his eyes flick briefly to Dorian sitting across from him and he can feel the Tevinter's eyes on him, warning him. The message is almost tangible. _Don't you dare say something to hurt her._  
   
"I think," he says at last, very slowly. "Were I a god, I would choose you."  
   
\---  
   
They drink for a long time. Solas himself attempts to abstain for a while, but Dorian and Illyria pester him until he finally concedes. The first pint makes the second easier and so on until Solas feels his thoughts swimming lazily in his head and the edges of the world are so soft, he's not entirely certain he hasn't accidentally slipped into the Fade.  
   
He's dimly aware that Dorian is telling a story - something about a cow vaulting over Minrathous - but he can't seem to focus on the Tevinter's undoubtedly inane story. Illyria, on the other hand, is giggling helplessly and Solas smiles in spite of himself, letting his mind drift in the music of her. He props his chin on his hand and closes his eyes. He does not open them again until he hears Dorian mumbling something about bed. Solas blinks sleepily to see Illyria sitting across from him, smiling.  
   
"Ready for bed?" she asks. Her eyes are dancing and her speech is somewhat slurred, but she does not seem ready to sleep. He shakes his head, feeling bold.  
   
"Hardly," he murmurs. "The night is young yet." He feels young, feels the wolf inside him pressed close against his skin. He feels like himself - too many eyes, teeth white and sharp, always laughing. He recognizes, in a distant sort of way, that this is dangerous, that he should retreat, that he should maintain his disguise as carefully as possible, but the truth is, he is _restless._ He wants to roam, to hunt, and the alcohol in his blood is singing to him.  
   
"Walk with me," Illyria says, interrupting his thoughts and grabbing his hand. Her fingers are warm in his and once again he allows her to drag him behind her. She marches towards the gates - the guards straighten as she passes - and through the walls, towards the outskirts of town. He doesn't question her, content to be led, and soon they arrive at an abandoned cabin, cold and dark in the snow.  
   
"Adan sent me here," she explains, pushing the door open. "To find research left behind after the Conclave. I come here when I don't want to be a Herald." Solas snorts at that. She wanders to a fireplace and sparks a flame in it with a wave of her hand. As light blooms in the small house, Solas notices that the place is mostly empty, save for a pile of pillows and blankets laid out in front of the fire and a stack of books on the desk almost as tall as he is.  
   
"You read." The words come out with more surprise than he intends. The Dalish do not tend to pursue such studies, unless they are Keepers or training to be. Illyria nods, settling down in front of the fire with a level of familiarity that implies she spends quite a lot of time here.  
   
"Yes." If she's offended by the question, she does not indicate it. "Why?"  
   
"I merely noticed your books," he says, gesturing to the stack. _Fenedhis,_ it's hard to focus. "Not many Dalish…" He can't find the words. "Read." She's strangely quiet for a long time and Solas wonders if he's said the wrong thing. Again. "What are you reading?" he asks, in an attempt to break the awkward silence.  
   
"Everything." She shifts over on the blanket and pats the space next to her, inviting him to sit down. After a moment's hesitation, he joins her. "Works on astronomy, the Fade, the elvhen, and so on. Not a great selection here, but Josephine can usually find me what I want." She waves her hand at her little private library vaguely. "Feel free to raid my collection whenever."  
   
"Impressive," he murmurs, peering at the title of the book on the top of the stack. _Fade and Spirits Mysterious_ by Brother Genitivi. "You enjoy research, then?" She nods sleepily, taking another swig out of a bottle he never even realized she had smuggled out of the tavern.  
   
"S'what I do," she mumbles. "I was a First, you know. Studied all the time. Gotta know the world and what's in it." She sighs. "Only thing I was good at." She takes another swallow. "Being an elf."  
   
Through the haze of alcohol swirling in his head, he catches a strange note in her voice.  
   
"You are skilled in a number of things, _da'len,"_ he offers, a trifle uncertainly. She snorts.  
   
"Nooooo," she says, stretching out her vowels somewhat comically. She props herself up on her elbow, squinting at him. "You don't… nope. I'm an elf. Silly Dalish with the markings on my face that I don't understand. Brainwashed by tradition, because we're all too naïve to think for ourselves." Solas gapes at her, hearing words he'd said almost verbatim - never specifically to her - come out of her mouth.  
   
"I know what you think," she says quietly and she suddenly sounds very small. "See it in your face. Hear it in your voice. In the way you talk about us. Me." She shakes her head. "My people."  
   
Suddenly he understands. Understands why she does not talk about her people with him, why she does not claim him as kin, why she seems so _sad_ when they talk about home. Gods, she must feel so alone.  
   
_"Ir abelas, lethallan."_ The words seem flat to him. Perhaps because he's not sure what he's apologizing for. For offending her? For telling her the truth? For the way Dalish are? For the… He suddenly realizes that she's not looking at him. Her face is turned away, wreathed in shadows dancing from the fireplace, hands nervously twisting around each other, and Solas curses himself under his breath.  
   
_"Ar'ane banal telam,"_ he whispers. Her eyes widen and he can see her trying to translate. _There is nothing wrong with you._ For a moment it looks like the words pain her, but then finally she looks up at him and forces a smile.  
   
"I know." She exhales sharply and thrusts the bottle in her hand at him. "Drink, _hahren."_ At his hesitation, she huffs and pushes the bottle into his hands. _"Drink,"_ she repeats firmly. He takes it from her wordlessly and tips it back, taking several long, smooth swallows. She nods her approval and reclaims the bottle, bringing it to her lips.  
   
"Why did you bring me here?" he asks her quietly. She falters, taking a moment to swallow before answering.  
   
"It's a safe place," she says at last. "I thought you might want one." Her eyes meet his and there's something _old,_ something wise, something infinitely lonely and sad flickering behind her gaze and he wonders if she sees the same in him. Perhaps it is the wine, perhaps the weariness pressing on them both, warm and heavy before the fire, but whatever it is gives him the courage reach forward and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyelids flutter slightly at the contact before she closes her eyes completely and breathes a sigh so deep, he's amazed she has breath left to speak.  
   
"I'm sorry for before," she murmurs, quiet as death. Solas frowns.  
   
"For what, _da'len?"_  
   
Eyes still closed, she leans into his touch until his palm is flat against her cheek. "You died." The words fall out of her like stones, each striking the earth with a dull thud before settling, perhaps forever, before her. "You stayed behind and I let you and then you died. You and Cassandra and Leliana. After a year, rotting in the dark." He feels a warm wetness on his hands. "I'm sorry for that."  
   
"Hush, Illyria," he soothes. "It was not your doing. And we are here now, safe, thanks to you." She shakes her head.  
   
"You don't understand," she whispers. "I gave the order. I picked the mages. I took you there and the world suffered and even though I fixed it this time, what about next time? What do I do when I give an order and someone dies? What if I can't fix it?" Her voice is barely audible by the last question, breathed like prayer, swallowed like blasphemy. He wants to tell her that he _understands,_ far more than she knows, but…  
   
She pulls away, but before Solas can mourn the loss of her, she scooches down and nestles her head in his lap. He freezes, arms suspended awkwardly above her, mind racing. Finally, he lowers a hand and rests it on her head, allowing his long, slender fingers to run through her short, golden hair.  
   
"You have given us hope, _da'len,"_ he murmurs. "And people believe, powerfully, in that hope. But no matter how hard we believe in something, terrible things happen, and the people we love are taken from us. And the weight of that loss does not rest solely on you. You will always bring more to the world than will be taken from it." Her eyes flicker open, shining bright with tears, but she smiles. It's small and shy, but it's there.  
   
She sits up slightly and tugs on his shirt sleeve. He only hesitates a moment before he shifts and settles down into the pile of blankets next to her. Without a word, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, she snuggles close to him, resting her head against his chest.  
   
_"Souver'inan isala hamin,"_ he whispers. And with that the Wolf and the Herald fell asleep and together neither of them dreamed.  



	5. I Would Spread the Cloths Under Your Feet

#01 – Comfort

Often, she dreams. More often she has nightmares. He can hear them screaming in the Fade, scratching, clawing, struggling. When he can, he chases away the memories that haunt her. When he can't, she wakes to a steaming cup of tea on her bedside. 

#02 - Kiss

He finds she is a creature of extraordinary affection. There's hardly a time she's not touching someone - trailing her fingers curiously over the Iron Bull's horns, ruffling Cullen's hair playfully every time Varric calls him "Curly", brushing her fingers against Cassandra's shoulder gently to remind her that she's not alone, pressing her lips chastely against Dorian's cheek when he lends her a book - but after their evening together in Taigen's old cabin, she does not touch Solas again. 

#03 - Soft

She sings. Not terribly well and in broken Elvish she barely understands, but she sings, and there's a softness, a gentleness to her voice that often brings even the hardiest warriors around the campfire to the point of tears. The largely human Inquisition cannot begin to understand, but she sings about home, and that is enough. 

#04 - Pain

They save a lot of people, but sometimes they don't. Sometimes they find the body of a pilgrim, the remains of a poor traveler, some innocent slaughtered by rogue mages or Templars or demons or bandits - the list goes on - and every loss hits her hard. He can see how every loss pains her, but every scar on her heart makes it stronger, so he swallows his self-loathing and marches forever forward. 

#05 - Potatoes

He tells her they won't grow, not here, not in this place of mountain and stone and snow. She digs a hole, deep in the ground, says, "You should know better than to tell a Dalish they can't grow something" and buries them anyway. Weeks later, as they feast on warm baked potatoes, Solas is glad to have been proven wrong. 

#06 - Rain 

He wakes up one morning in camp to the smell of rain. He groans, already anticipating a long day of listening to Dorian and Sera complaining, but when he exits his tent, he sees her, arms stretched towards the sky, face bare to the heavens. "It's the only time I feel clean," she says when he asks.

#07 - Chocolate

It's a gift from an Orlesian noble - a little bag, dark and sweet. She's never had anything like it. After her first bite, she immediately starts handing out pieces to all her companions. "Close your eyes," she murmurs, smiling playfully. "And open your mouth." 

#08 - Happiness

She still marvels when it snows and he tells stories of dreaming. She spins poetry out of half-forgotten Elvish and he remembers a symphony of unending magic. They are happiest in stillness, in the long slow song of time and solitude. Mostly, though, they are happy with each other. 

#09 - Telephone

Prisoner. Elf. Dalish slut. Knife-eared bitch. Pretender. Herald. Chosen. Traitor. The names circle and write in the air above her. _Illyria,_ she wants to scream. _My name is Illyria._

#10 - Ears

They lower their eyes when they speak to her - half to show respect, half to forget she's an elf. 

#11 - Name

"Pride," she says one day, looking at him thoughtfully. "Whose?" She's not sure why, but his voice is pained when he answers: "Mine." 

#12 - Sensual

She wields magic like she's making love, wrapping the Veil close around her like a lover. He can see it when she fights, dancing and pressing and penetrating, becoming one and coextensive with the Fade while in the same breath she brings it down with fury on those who stand in her way. No one ever stands for long. 

#13 - Death

"Do you have any family?" she asks one day. His silence is heavy, his face anguished, and she understands. She never asks again. 

#14 - Sex

Blackwall's question about his… relations with spirits in the Fade is lewd. Childish. But the way her ears perk up and her poorly concealed curiosity burns in her eyes intrigues him, so he doesn't mind that much. 

#15 - Touch

They find a rift in the Hinterlands, tucked in a ravine near the farms. The demons that pour out of it are more difficult to put down than usual, but Illyria says to close it, so they follow her. Solas fights from a distance as usual, supporting the others in the thick of it. His eyes are on her, locked in a battle with a Despair demon, so he doesn't see it. Doesn't hear the Terror clawing its way out of the earth behind him. Doesn't notice the dark magic or the angry roar. The only thing he notices is the air growing hot around him and _her,_ the feel of her magic wrapping around him in a barrier, close to his skin and strong. Long after the demon is dead and the Rift is closed, he still feels the touch of her magic on him.

#16 - Weakness

Hers are nothing like he expects. A strong drink. A nightmare. The soft curve of a new staff. A good book. A phrase of Elvish. He's far more acquainted with his own. Pride. Fear. Loyalty. Her. 

#17 - Tears

He finds her one night after a long day of meetings and arguments with her inner circle. She's standing at the edge of town, eyes bright and cheeks wet, staring at the Breach. They stand in silence for a long time until finally she says, "You know… it's kind of beautiful." 

#18 - Speed

He's often amazed by how slowly time passes while he's awake. In uthenera, ages of the world passed him like water in a river, but now… time is suspended between breaths, the moment between heartbeats feels like an eternity. The moment she reaches her hand to the Breach, flanked by an army of mages, is the first time he feels old. 

#19 - Wind

She throws herself in the flames, no matter the fire, and sometimes the barrier he throws between her and the world seems so thin. She's so small, he thinks. One day he expects she'll slip right through his fingers, ephemeral as the wind. 

#20 - Freedom

He used to think about leaving, but now he realizes he can't. Not without her. She is not the only one chained by the Anchor. 

#21 - Life

"It seems lonely," she comments one day, in lieu of absolutely nothing. Solas raises an eyebrow. "What does?" She shrugs. "Your life," she says simply. Solas forces a smile. "On the contrary, I have made many lasting friendships with spirits in the Fade. I have never felt bereft of companionship." She smiles sadly at him. "Yes, but what about when you wake up?" 

#22 - Jealousy

There's an army of men who would die for her, without even a second thought. He can't tell if she's aware, but the way some of them - _the blasted Templar_ \- looks at her sets him on edge in ways he does not understand. 

#23 - Hands

He likes the way her fingers move when she works magic - he'd swear she doesn't even need a staff sometimes - fingers long, delicate, twirling through the Fade. He remembers the feel of her wrist, thin and strong in his hand, pointing it towards hell. 

#24 - Taste

In an increasingly frequent moment of weakness, he imagines that she's sweet. 

#25 - Devotion

He's not sure what she believes. Perhaps neither is she, but she goes to the Chantry and listens to the Revered Mothers sing of Andraste and she bows her head with the rest of them, in part to put the hearts of Haven at ease, and in part out of respect for the woman who inspired so many. 

#26 - Forever

He wonders how much more he can keep up this charade. Solas. Fen'Harel. Part of the world. So much more. Waking. Dreaming. Forever. Barely a moment longer.

#27 - Blood

Her fingers are wet with it, only it’s not hers, it's his, pouring from a gash in his side. Her healing magic - rudimentary at best (her forte is fire), but better than nothing - is cool against the heat of his blood. Her eyes are calm, despite the shaking in her fingers. "Keep your eyes open next time, _hahren._ You know I'm no good at this." 

#28 - Sickness

On their way back to Haven, he collapses, wounds barely held together, burning with fever after foolishly refusing to take the last health poultice. Part of him is ashamed for being brought so low. Another part of him is kicking himself for forgetting that this body is weak. But when he wakes after a long night of tormented fever dreams to see her curled up next to him in his tent, hand resting on his chest where she had been working magic, he imagines that there are worse things than this. 

#29 - Melody

One of the Inquisition soldiers breaks out a lute one night around the fire and starts up a merry tune. Dorian grabs Illyria's hand and they twirl about the camp, steps clumsy with wine. She laughs in a way that he hasn't heard in a while, so when she reaches her hand out to him, to everyone's surprise, he takes it and enjoys the feel of her in his arms and the melody of her in his ears. 

#30 - Star

He knows when she has bad dreams and she cannot stand sleeping, suffocating, in her tent. She finds herself outside under the stars and sleeps easier there. She knows when he sleeps badly because he joins her. 

#31 - Home

Nobody talks about it much. These days, nobody can. 

#32 - Confusion

One morning she wakes screaming to Solas shaking her awake and she falls back, away from him, flinching, unable to tell the difference between the apostate elf and the many-eyed wolf from her dreams.

#33 - Fear

"What are you most afraid of?" she asks him one day over a pile of books. It's a long time before he responds. "Futility." It's true enough, but not completely. "You?" he asks, trying to remain neutral and failing when she answers: "Dying alone." 

#34 - Lightning/Thunder

In some ways they are opposites. She is all lightning and fire, arcing down from the heavens, crashing into the earth. He is slow, rumbling, echoing across years, a signal of the storm coming ever closer. 

#35 - Bonds

She loves all her companions, in her own way. Though she may have differences of opinion, she cares for all of them deeply. She loves the way Bull laughs at the sound of dragons’ wings flapping overhead. She loves the way Vivienne bows to _no one._ She loves the way Varric tells stories around the fire and the way Cassandra pretends not to be enraptured by them. She loves watching Blackwall sharpen his sword and Serra giggle madly over some stupid joke. She loves the way Dorian plays with fire and the way the two of them dance in it. As for Solas, she loves, well… 

#36 - Market

The time they spend in Val Royeaux is half arguing with Chantry mothers and half Illyria dragging them from stall to stall, running her hands over smooth, expensive, staves and glittering, colorful armors. She doesn't buy anything, never buys anything, but watches the merchandise and watches her companions. One time she catches him appreciating a mage's staff and before he knows it, she's marching out of Haven's smithy with her best approximation in her hands and presenting it to him with a smile. 

#37 - Technology

_"Gaatlok,"_ Bull calls her sometimes, for the way that fire flickers between her fingers and often explodes out of her unpredictably in battle. Varric often thinks that if he had another crossbow, "Illyria" wouldn't be a bad name. Solas just wishes everyone would stop thinking of her as a weapon. 

#38 - Gift

He speaks to her in elvish because he knows how she cherishes it. Every word is a gift, a thread connecting her home. 

#39 - Smile

Mythal would have been shamed by it, he suspects. 

#40 - Innocence

The Dalish do not have the same concepts of modesty as humans. Everyone knows this, but no one quite knows what it means until Blackwall hurries back to camp from the river, face red and lips sealed. She doesn't understand, as she dries her hair by the fire, why he won't meet her gaze. 

#41 - Completion

"What will you do?" she asks one day, in that abrupt, startling way of hers. "After all this is over?" _Seek penance,_ he almost says. "What I did before," he says instead. "What will you do?" Her smile is sad when she looks down at her hand, flickering with green light. "I think you and I both know that this won't end well for me." His chest constricts painfully at her words. "But it would be nice to go home." 

#42 - Clouds

"Look," she says, pointing at the sky. "That one looks like you." He rather thinks it looks like a wolf, but he doesn't say so. 

#43 - Sky

She dreams she's falling from a hole in the world, a wound in the sky. The ground grows ever closer as she plummets to earth, but she never strikes it. The close she gets, she realizes that the ground is opening up beneath her in the roar of a wolf's jaws. Before it can close around her, she wakes, body tingling with the feeling of teeth on her skin. She doesn't understand the look on Solas' face the next morning when she tells him of it. 

#44 - Heaven

"What do you imagine it's like?" she asks, idly and yet intently. "At the Maker's side?" Solas doesn't understand why she asks _him_ these questions, but he replies, "The Chantry teaches it is a reward for earthly behavior. I imagine it must be pleasant, as far as the humans are concerned. Why do you ask?" She looks at him - eyes heavy with some emotion he cannot name - and takes the wolf bone hanging from his neck in her hand. "I think it must be lonely," she murmurs. "To walk beside a god." 

#45 - Hell

"What do you believe in?" Cassandra asks her one night around the fire. "Where are your gods?" Illyria considers the question carefully. "The Keepers tell us that our gods created all that is," she says. "And they ruled Arlathan. And then, one day, Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf, the only god who could walk in all worlds, betrayed his brethren and locked them away in the Eternal City. No one knows why." Cassandra raises an eyebrow. "Why do you think?" Illyria shrugs. "I don't know. But there must have been a reason. The Dalish now fear and revile him, while we hold his family beloved. It seems a lonely way to live." 

#46 - Sun

She often rises well before the sun, stealing out of her tent just before dawn. She likes to meditate, likes to dip her mind into the Fade like a finger into a clear pool - cool and distant. When she opens her eyes, the world that she had yielded to half-shadows is awash with light. Sometimes she wishes she could stay in the dark. 

#47 - Moon

He likes to work magic in the light of it. She likes to watch him on the nights (and there are so many of them) that she can't sleep. He pretends not to notice her and she pretends not to notice _that_ and together they take peace in the soft glow of the moon. 

#48 - Waves

Haven crumbles in waves. First comes the magic that seals the Breach. It flows through her like water; she can feel it bubbling under her skin before bursting out of her palm. The next wave comes in the midst of celebration. She wants to join them, but she can't, she doesn't know how - the world seems too fragile for song in this moment. It turns out she's right. An army of angry Templars pour down the mountains, blades sharp, eyes unforgiving, crashing against the walls. She can hear the screaming, can smell the blood, but mostly she's waiting for the next wave. It's only when Corypheus throws her against the trebuchet and her eyes find the mountain that she sees it. "Time to go," she whispers as it hits. 

#49 - Hair

The mountain seems to collapse on top of her and once again Solas feels the whole world change. The night is dark, a blizzard rages, and as the hours pass, he realizes she really is _gone,_ how could she not be, no one could survive that - he'll never see her again, never get to tell her the truth, never feel the warmth of his name on her lips, never twist his fingers in her hair and pull her close to him, never, never, never - the minute he can, he pulls himself away from the group, finds a place alone in the snow, falls to his knees and allows himself to scream. It sounds like a wolf's howl over the roar of the storm. 

#50 – Supernova

"There! It's her!" Cullen's cry sets the world turning again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by https://www.fanfiction.net/s/2847752/4/Tempest-in-a-Teacup


	6. But I, Being Poor, Have Only My Dreams;

She awakes to an Inquisition shattered, pieces scattered about her, crunching underfoot, shards of hope like glass beneath her skin. She cannot stand the sound of them. 

Mother Giselle's words pass over her, through her, but she has no ears for them. She has only eyes - scanning, searching, _counting_ \- how many did she lose? How many did she fail? 

She wants to scream when the singing starts. Dread Wolf take all of them - stupid, desperate _shemlen_ \- _I let so many of you die,_ she wants to scream. She's suffocating in the song of their mourning, their hope. She feels herself spiraling, sinking, and then… 

"A word?" The sound of Solas' voice sends a wave of relief through her and finally everything is still. Though she knows Cassandra and the others want to speak, knows the people want to see her well, knows she should say _something_ to these people who have bowed before her, she follows Solas silently out of camp. 

His steps are slow, measured. A veilfire brazier flickers to life with an almost lazy wave of his hand. But when he turns to look at her, his eyes are bright with an intensity she does not understand. He takes a quick step towards her, voice low, and asks the last thing she expects. 

"Are you alright?" It's a question no one else has thought to ask. She cannot find her voice to speak, so she offers a quick, imperceptible shake of her head. Solas exhales sharply, nods once, and then turns away, a mile of distance forming between them. She is used to this by now, so she shifts her weight to her heels, away from him, and waits for him to speak. 

"The humans have not raised one of our people so high for ages beyond counting" he says. His voice is calm, light, but she can sense something troubling him. For a moment, the very spirit of Shartan may as well stand between them, but Illyria pushes that away at the slight thrill of his words. _Our people._ She focuses back on him as she realizes he's still talking. "Her faith is hard-won, lethallin." She guesses he means Giselle. "Worthy of pride…" He takes a breath, pauses, and then seems to make a decision. "Save one detail." His eyes hold a sort of fear as he finally looks at her. 

"The threat Corypheus wields? The orb he carries? It is ours." Before she can ask him what he means, he forges on ahead, and she is reminded of their first meeting, their first Rift, and the way the things he knew poured freely from him. "Corypheus used the orb to open the Breach. Unlocking it must have caused the explosion that destroyed the Conclave." He sighed. "We must find out how he survived… and we must prepare for their reaction, when they learn that the orb is of our people." She smiles briefly again at his words and then proceeds to do what she does best: ask questions. 

"Alright, what is it and how do you know about it?" Solas offers a small smile in return and settles into the role most familiar to him, _hahren._

"Such things were foci, said to channel the power from our gods. Some were dedicated to specific members of our pantheon." He sighs, his tone regretful. "All that remains are references in ruins and faint visions of memory in the Fade, echoes of a dead empire. But however Corypheus came to it, the orb is elvhen, and with it he threatens the heart of human faith." 

"Didn't you see?" Illyria mutters, the sound of their Chant echoing in her ears. "The people trust me implicitly." Solas' eyes are sad as he nods. 

"Faith tends to make martyrs of its champions." They are quiet for a long moment before Solas speaks again. "Whatever the case, that trust cannot grow in the wilderness. You will need every advantage." She raises an eyebrow as Solas steps away from her, looking out over towards the mountains. 

"Where do you suggest we go?" A ghost of a smile flickers over his lips. 

"Home." 

\--- 

She marches and he follows. It's a pattern with them, he's realizing. Together they lead the Inquisition through the Frostbacks, ever north to a place that may deserve her, a place that holds the sky.

She is different after Haven. Everyone is. She still smiles, wildly and generously, still questions, still marches forever forward. But the weight of all that she is hangs differently now, hangs heavier. Her steps are slower, less sure. With every step, her eyes are searching, seeking, silent and watchful, waiting. Solas is often exhausted just looking at her. He offers encouragement where he can, but she does not ask for it. She accepts, she is resolute, she marches on. 

\--- 

He watches her raise the sword high, watches her face twist with doubt and anxiety, watches her declare the Inquisition an institution of faith, and he sighs. He wants to say he's not disappointed but, in a way, he is. He knows the humans need this, knows she does this for them, because they've lost so much and she feels responsible. 

He wants to talk to her, wants her to explain herself, wants to know if she's alright, but he does not speak to her for many days. He sees her, flitting about Skyhold, telling stories to the wounded around the fire as they heal, tending them when she can, assisting with repairs, and any other odd jobs she can get her hands on in the fortress. Resigned to waiting, he helps himself to the rotunda, busies himself with study, and when his eyes grow too tired for reading, he begins to paint.

He starts with the Breach, starts with the sky, subdued shades of red and black, and then a sword. The Inquisition. The eye that watches the swords of men, that which will return balance to the world. He's not sure if it's true, but he tries. 

"Colors bleeding into stone. You paint because you want this place to remember you. It never forgot." Solas sighs and sets down his brush, turning to focus his attention on the other most recent object of his study. 

"Hello, Cole," he says politely, trying not to think too much on the strange boy's words. He isn't yet sure what to make of the...spirit? "Spirit" seems like an accurate enough description, but also somehow incomplete. Regardless, the boy is dangerous. He'd have to guard his thoughts carefully. Cole's face darkens. 

"Walls, rising up like thorns. Keeping in, blocking out. It hurts to look at, so much like the dark." The boy's voice is pained, but Solas cannot afford to be moved to pity. He takes a breath, forces calm, forces peace. Slowly, Cole relaxes. His eyes flick back to the fresco. 

"The world is brighter when she's near. She changes everything." Before Solas can respond, the boy is gone. He is replaced, unfathomably, by her. 

"Il- Inquisitor!" Solas exclaims, caught off guard by her appearance in the doorway in Cole's wake. "Hello." Something flickers behind her eyes at his greeting, but she smiles, eyes scanning the fresco behind him. 

"Illyria," she corrects him gently. _"Aneth ara, lethallan._ I apologize for not stopping by to see you sooner. I've been… busy." She casts him a furtive glance before continuing. "Are you comfortable here?" 

"Very," he replies, watching her walk the circumference of the room, taking in all he has painted thus far. "I enjoy a quiet place to do research." She smiles. 

"And paint?" 

"And paint." 

"Why the wolves?" The question startles him and for a moment he's confused. At his look, she gestures to the fresco. "Why do the wolves howl so?" He follows her eyes to the two wolves painted at the base of the Inquisition's sword, howling at the sky, beneath the all-seeing eye of his Inquisitor. 

"Some creative license, I suppose," he offers at last. "And personal indulgence to the mythology of our people." Illyria smiles darkly, running her finger over a section of the painting that had dried. 

"We've seen him," she murmurs. "Our enemy." Her eyes turn on him, haunted but bright. "We have his scent now. The Dread Wolf will have to follow." Solas raises an eyebrow, a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

"Do you think you can outrun him?" Her answer, as always, is nothing she expects.

"I've never felt the need." 

\---

She visits more often after that, settling into a familiar pattern as the Inquisition makes a home of Skyhold. She rises early each morning, as she always has, positioning herself on the balcony outside her quarters, and she _breathes_ \- meditating, searching, feeling the Fade. He can feel the pull of her (his) magic in these wee hours. Often he's asleep, or something like it, in the same state of half-knowing, half-dreaming. He lets his magic answer. He doesn't know if she can feel him, but she stops by every morning before breakfast to ask him how he's slept. 

Unless they're on the road, he doesn't see her again until the evening, but these are the visits he treasures most. As night falls, the Inquisition retracts the claws embedded in her and she invariably finds her way to the library, the rotunda, and the company of her two favorite mages. She's apparently worked out some bizarre system of communication with the Tevinter upstairs, so often she makes herself at home at Solas' desk and shouts obscenities up the tower, only to be answered with a laugh, a good-natured "Harlot!", and a book falling down from above into her outstretched hands. Then they read and talk well into the night, many times lapsing into lengthy silences that neither of them seem inclined to break. This is their routine. 

Today, though, she is restless. Pensive. He doesn't know why, but knows she'll tell him when and if she wants to, so he waits. 

She walks in that evening with her usual greeting, but she does not sit, does not call for a book, merely paces the length of the room, her gaze trained on the fresco - which at this point depicts her decision to ally with the mages - but her eyes seem to comprehend little of it. 

"How did you know about this place, Solas?" He blinks, startled by the question. "Skyhold," she clarifies. "How did you know to find it?" She turns her eyes on him, agitated and intense. 

"I found a memory of this place in the Fade," he says carefully. She raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms in front of her. 

"A memory?" Her voice is sharp. Skeptical. "This place is ancient. A memory is unreliable. You could have led us to ruins." He frowns at her tone, accusing and somewhat suspicious. He's not sure what's sparked this line of interrogation, but he has a distinct feeling his "Fade" excuse is wearing thin. 

"It was a desperate hope," he answers, voice somewhat more defensive than he intends. "We had no other option. It is fortunate for us all that I did take this chance, or would you rather we still wandered the mountains?" She does not flinch at his tone, does not shrink back from the indignation in his eyes, she only meets his gaze, calm and even. 

"One day," she says slowly. "I'm going to ask you a question. And 'the Fade' will not be a good enough answer. I simply hope that when that day arrives, you'll trust me enough to tell me the truth."

\---

The next time they speak, he finds her. She's in the garden, fingers stained dark by the earth, warming the soil in her palms. On her face is an expression of perfect peace, love almost, and for a moment, Solas considers retreating back to his rotunda and leaving her to the garden, but she is Dalish, trained to be a hunter before she was ever trained to be a Keeper, so her ears perk up at his approach and she smiles at him. His courage is somewhat bolstered by the expression, so he steps forward. 

"Good morning," he murmurs, crouching down beside her. "How fares the garden?" The unspoken apology hangs on his lips, but he cannot bring himself to shatter the stillness. 

"Elan has done an excellent job here," she murmurs, voice soft, as though equally afraid to disturb the peace of the morning. "Honestly, the garden is remarkable. Nothing should grow here, at the top of the world, and yet it does." 

"An apt analogue for the Inquisition, wouldn't you say?" Solas says, smiling. He reaches out to touch the soft greenness of the elfroot she's so carefully cultivating. "It's beautiful, because it's not supposed to be here." Illyria's smile widens and Solas knows in that moment that she understands why he has come and his apology is accepted. She rises to her feet, brushing her hands off on her pants, seemingly oblivious to the stains to her finery. 

"The sentiment is appreciated, Solas," she says. "Now, what can I do for you?" 

"I thought I might show you something," he hazards, somewhat uncertainly. "If you have some free time this morning and would care to accompany me?" She cocks her head to the side and looks at him closely for a long moment before nodding. 

_"Ma nuvenin,"_ she says at last. "Lead the way." His heart feels considerably lighter as he turns on his heels towards the door. 

Together they explore every nook and cranny of Skyhold. Some places the Inquisition has already renovated and put to use. Other places have yet to be touched. Solas leads her to a small library where an ancient tome sits propped open, the words on the exposed pages faded to time. 

"I know in Haven, you had a safe place," he says quietly. "A place where you could retreat, where no one could find you, ask anything of you. I thought I might suggest a new one, here in your new home." Her expression is unfathomable, her mouth a thin line. She turns away from him, fingers trailing over books layered with dust. For a moment he is afraid he's offended her in some way, though he can't imagine how. Then all at once her arms are wrapped around him, her face is nuzzling in his chest, and she is soft and warm against him. 

"Thank you," she whispers, squeezing him tighter. "Thank you." 

They spend a long time in there, exploring the books on the shelves, marveling at the condition of some of them, and setting others aside for reading. After a while, they're both on the floor, backs against a wall with books in their laps, so close their legs are pressed against each other. Solas isn't sure he's ever felt more at peace. 

"Tell me a story of this place," she says suddenly. "Tell me about Tarasyl'an Te'las." Solas considers her request carefully. Already she has expressed suspicion regarding the origin of his knowledge, but he cannot bring himself to lie to her. 

"The last person to occupy this place was a Ferelden enchanter," he begins, choosing each word with care. "He came to this place on the echo of a legend, the promise of a myth. A wrong turn, a misstep in these mountains can mean death, but still he came. He came not for conquest, or property, or wealth, but for history. And he found Skyhold." As he eases into his tale, she leans her head against his shoulder, listening to the rising and falling of his voice. 

"This place belonged to us once," he continues. "Our people. This enchanter wished to know why we had built it, what we had used it for. He studied the stone, the structure, and found that this place was already ancient when it had been broken and rebuilt time and again ages before. He found remnants of a spire and wanted to restore Skyhold to her former self, but his efforts were dangerous. His spire brought lightning, fire from the sky, and it consumed him. Perhaps Skyhold resisted his efforts, perhaps she was too used to change to go back, but he died, leaving his final words as the only true discovery he made of this place." 

"What were his final words?" Her voice was soft, as though to speak too loudly would be to summon the spirit of this enchanter to rebuke them for speaking of the dead. 

"'The Veil is old here.'" She shudders and is quiet for a long time. 

"What did we use this place for?" she asks at last. "Do you know?" Solas sighs heavily, once again weighing his words carefully.

"We call her Skyhold because the original elvish is difficult," he explains. "Our translation is, as always, incomplete. It is not 'where the sky is held' but 'where they sky is held back.' This place is older than anywhere else in Thedas, I think." He pauses, closing his eyes. "Can you feel the magic here? Can you hear how it whispers?"

"Ages before we had words to write of it, I believe the universe was whole. The waking world and the Fade, there was no difference between the two. But time and desire made war on itself, so someone came here, to the highest place and reached for the sky, drew down the Veil, and created the binary in which we now live." When he opens his eyes, Illyria is staring at him. 

"The Veil was created here?" she asks, voice somehow incredulous and...reverent. 

"I cannot say for certain," he admits, forcing a casual shrug. "I only know scraps of truth, fragments of memory, pieces of moments that could not possibly speak for eons. But I know what I feel, I know this place was old even when our people inhabited it before Arlathan fell, and I know that there is now no more worthy soul who could claim Skyhold today than you." Her eyes are bright, startled, at his words. "Anyone else would have died in the snow." 

The implication of his words hangs heavily between them. It occurs to him that he hadn't realized that was true until he'd said it. Skyhold would not have suffered any lesser creature to claim her, he knows this, he knows this like he knows how easily he once could have torn the sky open, if he'd wanted to, the last time he had been here, so many years ago. Skyhold is his gift to her. _She changes everything._

He becomes aware all at once how close they are to each other, how warm her body is against his. He wonders if she feels it too, if her heart is hammering in the same way, his heartbeat sounds so loud in his ears… 

"I want to know more," she whispers, interrupting his thoughts. "I want to know everything. Everything you've learned, everything you've studied. I want to know about you, Solas, if you'd be willing." 

"Very well then," he murmurs. "Let us talk." He glances at the cramped, dusty room they're in. "Preferably somewhere more interesting than this." And with that, in an impulse that he knows he's going to regret but can't bring himself to resist, he waves a hand and plunges them both into the Fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thank you for sticking with me. Just a heads up that most of what I'm talking about in this chapter is completely just made up. I'm tinkering with my own head-canon about what's going on with Solas and with Skyhold. What you read about Skyhold in the codex makes it seem like a somewhat sinister place, and Solas even has a letter he writes to the Inquisitor about what the elvish name actually means. My theory is that Skyhold was a place that belonged to Fen'Harel, long ago, and it was here that he created the Veil, locking the Creators and the Forbidden Ones in the Fade and leaving the People to their own devices. But that's just my running theory - read everything with huge grains of salt!


	7. I Have Spread My Dreams Under Your Feet

She dreams with astonishing clarity. Solas already knows that this is foolish, but he follows her to the Fade anyway, tweaking the directions of her dreams, guiding her back to what is familiar, what is safe. He considers taking her home to the forests of the Free Marches, but he does not know what he may find there. His memories, he knows, are too dangerous for her and would raise too many questions, so he takes her to Haven. 

He hears birdsong as the memory of a clear cool morning takes shape among them. The sun is recently risen and the village empty. She materializes next to him, hazy and spectral but so unequivocally _her;_ he doesn't think she's ever looked more beautiful. He waits for her to be angry, or confused, but she smiles at him serenely like this is the most natural thing in the world. 

"Why here?" she asks simply. Solas offers a shrug and walks ahead of her, mind racing. 

"Haven is familiar," he says offhandedly. "It will always be important to you." 

She nods, but persists. "We've talked about that already." Solas concedes that point, but does not answer her, instead leading her to the cells where once he slept beside her. 

"You fell from a hole in the world," he says softly, the memory of their first meeting playing behind his eyes. "They were scared. They did not understand what you were, what you meant, and they wanted someone to answer for all the tragedy. It was all I could do to convince Cassandra to stay her hand long enough for me to determine why you had come." He shook his head, a ghost of a smile flitting across his lips. 

"I studied the Anchor while you slept," he continues. "Sat with you, slept with you. Searched the Fade for answers and found none. Cassandra threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I failed to produce results." Illyria chuckles softly and she gazes at the place where once she slept in chains. 

"That sounds like her," she admits. She turns her eyes on him. "Thank you for looking out for me, Solas. I suspect I would not be here several times over if not for you. _Ma melava halani."_ The words stir a feeling he does not understand in him, so he shakes his head and turns abruptly away, marching out of the Chantry. 

_"De da’rahn,"_ he mutters. "If not for you, none of us would be." 

She follows him silently outside, back into the cold, patient as always. He feels panic bubbling inside of him - _why is he here, what did he come here to say_ \- so he forges ahead. If she notices that he's rambling, she does not indicate it. "You were never going to wake up. How could you, a mortal sent physically through the Fade? I was frustrated, frightened. The spirits that I may have consulted had been driven away by the Breach. Although I wished to help, I had no faith in Cassandra, nor she in me. I was ready to flee." The admission falls from his lips before he has time to consider the implications of it. But it was true. The confusion, the anguish, the despair upon the explosion of the Conclave is still fresh in his heart; he'd been so weak, awake from eternity for what felt like only moments before he realized everything had gone terribly, terribly wrong. 

"But you stayed." Something like forgiveness. The pain in his chest eases. 

"I did." A promise. It frightens him. He turns away, raises his hand to the sky where a wound still pulses with regret. "I told myself, one more attempt to seal the Rifts. I tried and failed. No ordinary magic would affect them." And how it had galled him, to see his own magic writhing before him and knowing that nothing he could do now would bend it to his will. Helpless. "I watched the Rifts expand and grow, resigned myself to flee, and then…" 

Some strange agony surges in him and the memory floods them, abrupt, jarring, suffocating. All at once he can feel her wrist in his hand, can feel the essence of him flow through her, but also something inherently _her,_ something more than just himself, than just the scar of his magic. 

"It seems you hold the key to our salvation." Even now, the words feel like a curse. But it's true. "You had sealed it with a gesture… and right then, I felt the whole world change." The universe had buckled under her command, the incompleteness of himself becoming somehow whole at her touch. Thedas would never be the same. 

"Felt the whole world change?" The softness of her voice startles him and he meets her gaze at last. He cannot decipher the thoughts behind her eyes, but he can see the way she hesitates, the tentative way she steps towards him. He wonders if he's overstepped, so he backtracks quickly 

"A figure of speech." She frowns. 

"I'm aware of the metaphor," she says, stepping towards him again. "I'm more interested in 'felt.'" In that moment, Solas realizes that lying to her is harder than he anticipated. 

"You change...everything." A confession. The utterance of it lifts a weight from his heart. It leaves uncertainty in its wake. For a moment her eyes look sad. 

"Sweet talker," she murmurs, looking down and away from him. He tries to stifle the pang of disappointment - _it's not right, not even here_ \- and starts to turn from her, ready to take them back to the waking world and then… 

Her hand snakes up and grips the back of his neck, pulling his face towards her. Before he understand what's happening, soft lips are pressed against his, bold, warm, and insistent. And all too soon she pulls away, fear in her eyes, an apology already forming on the lips that had just tasted so sweet in his mouth. He can feel the wolf inside him growling at her retreat, hungry for more of her. He shakes his head slightly - _mine_ \- and grabs her by the waist, pulling her close. His kisses are greedy; he wants the taste of her, the feel of her, she's so _warm_ against him. One hand reaches down and grabs her thigh, squeezing the flesh of her gently, while the other hand holds her close against him. It's been so _long,_ ages since he last… 

She pulls back for air and the reality of what they have done dampens the fire in his belly. He starts to pull away, shaking his head again, but cannot resist leaving one last kiss on her lips before separating himself from her completely. 

"We shouldn't," he forces himself to say. "It isn't right. Not even here." Illyria blinks, frowning, disappointment and hurt flickering across her face.

"This isn't real," she whispers, taking a step back from him. Solas shakes his head quickly, apprehension pooling in his gut.

"That is a matter of debate," he says, his mind already collapsing the memory. "Probably best discussed after you...wake up." 

\---

She bolts upright in bed, the memory of a dream rapidly fading and her lips still tingling with the feeling of him. She's in her room, somehow. She wonders how he got her there, if he managed it without anyone seeing, how long he stayed with her before he left. A part of her feels…violated. Thrust into sleep, dragged through a memory, toyed with, and sent back to the real world. She'd known they were in the Fade - she was a mage, after all - but she'd never traveled it like that before and never _with_ anyone. But she followed him, deeply curious and drawn to this strange elf who spoke so fervently of what she meant to him. His admission had shocked her, stoked a desire in her that she hadn't even known she'd had, and she acted on impulse. It'd been everything she'd imagined. 

But it had all been little more than a dream to him, it seems. _It isn't right. Not even here._ Her heart hurts at the rejection. Safe, perhaps, to kiss her in a dream, but never in real life. It was all just a dream. 

She sighs heavily and flops back onto her pillow, listening to the birds outside her window. Midday had crept over Skyhold while she'd slept. Time to go to work. 

\--- 

He's not sure what he expects in the wake of his foolishness. She does not come to see him when she wakes and as evening approaches an uneasiness settles over him. He waits for night to come, drowns himself in his reading, tries not to listen for her footsteps at the door. Her empty chair across his desk taunts him, the words on the page before him mean nothing, he can't focus… _Fenedhis._ He needs some air. 

The air is cool and sharp against his skin as he walks the battlements, watching the Inquisition bustle below him. It's so strange, he thinks, to see Skyhold so alive, even in the evening as everyone prepares to settle in for the night. He's lost track of how many years she's sat, alone and unoccupied. 

"Hurting. Hoping. Waiting in dread. _Why_ doesn't she come?" Solas curses quietly under his breath; he's not in the mood. Cole, materializing beside him, continues on, staring out into the cold and snow outside of Skyhold as he speaks. 

"Walls again, unease. Mustn't let the boy see. But I could make you feel _better. "_

"No pain of mine need concern you, Cole," Solas murmurs, once again trying to clear his mind. Cole shakes his head emphatically, his large brimmed hat flopping comically around his head. 

"It _aches,_ throbs. You are so quiet and yet I can hear it singing. Pain crying to be felt, all tied up in knots." Finally Cole looks up at him, cocking his head to the side in a way that reminds him of _her_ and suddenly all attempts to clear his mind fail. 

"She _glows._ So bright in your shadows." The boy's brow furrows. _"It's not right. Not even here._ Why do you push her away?" Solas sighs, deep and heavy from the core of him, and for once in his life, decides to tell the truth. 

"It is complicated, Cole. Who I am, what I must do… What little pleasure I would have now would only be returned to me tenfold in pain later." This does not seem to satisfy the spirit. 

"Why?" 

"Because when this is over, I will have to leave." 

"Why?" Suddenly this is oddly like arguing with a toddler. 

"Because…" He frowns, unsure how further to simplify this. "I have work to do." A sharp intake of breath and suddenly Cole's eyes are wide, unseeing. When he speaks, it is not with his own voice.

 _"Sul’emalan or tunan, amelan or vun i alas aron… Ir abelas, abelas… Lasa nan’ise nuis, tuaun leal… This is not what I wanted, but it must be so. I am so sorry."_ Cole blinks, his eyes refocusing. "This is the one called Pride." Solas hears his own words, spoken ages beyond counting ago, repeated to him distantly, as though the world has suddenly twisted itself to a tunnel and the only dimensions left to him are forward and behind. He resists the urge to run. 

"Cole," he whispers, brokenly. "You must understand, no one can know." A pause, god brought low before compassion. "Please." Cole blinks at him and then nods once.

"Secret, safe, for the People. Only for them." He smiles. "I think she would be proud." 

\---

She's waiting for him when he returns to the rotunda. Her back is to him, eyes trained once again on his paintings. He cannot guess at her thoughts, so he says the only thing he can think of. 

"Sleep well?" If she hears him, she does not indicate it. Instead, she reaches out a finger and trails it down the wall in a place where, mercifully, the paint has dried. 

"Tevinter legend called them _somniari,"_ she says, voice soft as a sigh. He recognizes distantly that she's wearing armor, that melted snow pools around her boots, and that her shoulders are slumped with a day's weariness. So she was out in the field today, he muses, without him. She must have taken Dorian. The thought makes him uneasy. "Dreamers," she continues, seemingly oblivious to the coldness that grips his heart at her words. "They walked the Fade as they pleased, bent reality to their will, roamed the dreams of others. Legends, lost to time, I thought." 

Finally she turns her eyes on him, hollow and unmoving. "The last Dreamers we knew went to _uthenera_ and never woke." She shakes her head. "So much of what you know should have been buried ages before you knew to walk the Fade to find it." 

This is not the conversation he'd anticipated and as she stares him down, hard and unfeeling, he realizes that she's far better suited to her title than he'd thought. He can feel the wolf in him urging him to flee, but he holds his ground. 

"I assure you, Inquisitor," he says carefully. "All I can do are parlor tricks compared to -" 

"Stop _lying_ to me," she snaps, fire flaring at last behind her carefully controlled mask. "How can I trust you when _nothing_ is real? You lie, you evade, refuse to answer questions, drag me into the Fade, so you can...what? Toy with me where you think there'll be no consequences?" 

Confusion and hurt replace his panic before he's even really registered what she's said. 

"Is that what you think I was doing?" She crosses her arms in front of her, but says nothing, her silence speaking more loudly than her words ever could. He releases a breath he hadn't even known he'd been holding, running his hand over his eyes. 

"Illyria, I…" Words fail him. _"Ir abelas._ The kiss was impulsive and ill-considered. Things have always been easier for me in the Fade, but that does not make them right." He knows he should leave it there, but he can't. "But nothing I said was untrue." Her eyes soften, only slightly, but he considers that a victory. 

"What does that mean, then?" she asks, sighing. "For us? What do we do?" He inhales slowly, heart in his throat, Cole's words in his ears, _she would be proud._

"It cannot be any secret that I feel...strongly for you." Her lips twitch slightly at his words, but she says nothing. "But it is complicated. There are...considerations, and I need time to think." 

"As do I," she agrees, more easily than he expects. "Take all the time you need." Seeming to close the matter entirely, she starts for the door. "I need to get out of this blasted armor and find some food. We'll speak later. I still have a great many questions, Solas. I suggest you prepare answers for them." Solas smiles, despite his unease. _Inquisitor indeed._

"Oh, and Solas?" He looks up to see her paused in the doorway, looking back at him with an expression that he has no doubt will bring nations to their knees. "Put me to sleep again without my permission and I'll see to it you roam the Fade from the dungeons for a week."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you for sticking with me. In short, this chapter is a response to the way that I wish our Inquisitor reacted to the Fade kiss in game. While I love Solas and love this romance, I think my Lavellan would be a little angry that he just knocked her out, dragged her to her room, and smooched her in the Fade without any explanation or apology. Also, it bothers me that AS a mage, my character didn't seem to understand what was going on, so I changed her in-game reaction of "This isn't real..." to mean something else. I think too much of what Solas does in the game goes unquestioned, so I thought I'd address that here.
> 
> Also, relevant Elvish (thanks to the lovely Project Elvhen)
> 
> Ma melava halani - An elvish idiom essentially meaning, “You have spent your time to help me.” Archaic and intimate. Rarely spoken to those who are not very close friends, family, or lovers.
> 
> De da’rahn - It was a little thing. Essentially, "No problem." 
> 
> Sul'emalan or tunan, amelan or vun i alas aron - Deliverer of justice, protector of sun and earth alike
> 
> Lasa nan'ise nuis, tuaun leal - Let the fire of vengeance burn, the cause is clear.


	8. Tread Softly, Because You Tread On My Dreams

Since Haven, he has found she is soft in ways he doesn't expect and hard in ways he never thought she would be. In one moment she is gaily picking on the Seeker's secret love of romance novels; in the next, she is on her throne - tall, arching, golden curves reminiscent of the Circle of Magi, with a wreath of vines wrapped around the arms to remind the human faithful that their savior is Dalish - straight-backed, erect, like she sprouted there and dispenses justice as though born to it. To the Avvar chief she holds back a smile and her lofty mischief gladdens his Trickster heart as she arms the mountain warriors and sends them marching to Tevinter. But the misguided mayor who sent his blighted townsfolk drowning meets her wrath, deadly and quiet. Her voice is too soft as she rips him out of the only world he's ever known and bids him run away where she can't find him. Everyone knows the words are empty - there's not a corner in Thedas out of her reach now. 

He recollects fondly their many conversations in Haven; how easily she asked him questions and sought his advice. Now, despite ...whatever it is burgeoning between them… she is sometimes as distant and remote as the mountains that surround them. It is only when the daily march has been long, when the cost of what they are doing seems high, that she comes to him, padding silently into the rotunda or slipping into his tent at camp and she talks. Sometimes she asks him questions, but mostly he listens. She comes to him in mourning or in longing for home and when she is spent, he whispers stories of long ago in Elvish she barely understands. When he's lucky, she sleeps, slipping quietly into slumber curled up into a ball on the couch in the rotunda or beside him on his bedroll. By morning, she's always gone. It is both intimate and alienating.

Often he wonders what she was like before all of this - before she branded herself on the folly of a god and became a slave to human faith. He expects she was lighter, softer, gentler than the weapon into which she has been forged. He wonders what sort of clan could have created one such as her. 

She tells him that she wants him to be there when she first goes to the Exalted Plains. "I've never been there before," she explains. "I'd like to see it with you." She takes Cassandra and Cole as well. "I think they'd understand," she says when he asks. 

After they're briefed by Scout Harding and they start on the Path of Flame, she only makes it so many steps before she's rounded the corner and sees the expanse of the Plains before her. She halts abruptly, eyes wide, lips parted in a silent gasp. 

"Blood soaked so deep you can't see it anymore, _why is everything still burning."_ Nonplussed by her thoughts coming out of Cole's mouth, she simply reaches out and takes his hand, giving it a squeeze. 

"Something really bad happened here." She pauses, corrects herself. "Keeps happening here." Her smile is sad, but honest. "We're going to try to heal this land's hurt." Cole nods gravely and his eyes look past her and find Solas. 

"'We are the last of the Elvhenan. Never again shall we submit.'" Solas smiles in spite of himself at the sound of the maudlin Dalish oath on the boy's lips, but he can see the words weigh heavy on the Inquisitor, so he gestures for her to lead on. And she does. 

\---

The Veil is thin here. He can feel it, stretched tight and tremoring with the clamoring undead. Whatever once was green or beautiful has long since died. The shemlen have seen to that. 

Illyria is quiet, so their march is quiet. The silence hangs on them like a spell; each of them is wary to break it, lest they bring down some evil on themselves. This goes on for hours - skirting around the bodies of the dead, looking for yet another place to set up camp before nightfall. They head in the direction of water (Cole insists he can hear it, just a little bit further) when suddenly Illyria’s face breaks into a wide smile. 

_"Enasal,"_ she breathes, breaking the silence so gently it's like the spell had been lifted all together. Solas follows her eyes and catches a flash of red through the trees. Ah, aravels. A clan. Illyria holds up a hand and the rest of them halt instinctively, looking to her to await orders. 

"Wait on this side of the river," she murmurs to them. "Solas and I will approach and I'll see how hostile their Keeper is to outsiders. Perhaps they will be willing to allow us to camp near them." Cassandra nods in understanding, while Cole simply blinks once, but she seems to take that as acceptance and jerks her head towards the landships. 

"Come, _hahren,"_ she says, grinning broadly at him. "I have found some lost souls for you to educate." 

\---

_"Tuelanen i'na , Amelan,"_ she calls across the water, and with those words, Inquisitor Illyria Lavellan transforms before Solas' eyes. For the first time in all the months he has known her, she seems calm, at perfect peace with where and what she is. 

_"Andaran atish'an, da'len,"_ the Keeper says, eyeing them carefully as they approach. If his obvious suspicion bothers Illyria, she does not show it. Instead, she slowly unslings her staff from her back and lays it gently on the ground, with a glance at Solas urging him to do the same. 

"Peace to you and yours, Keeper," she says, loud enough for the small gathering of elves there to hear. "I am Illyria Lavellan, First to Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan, and Inquisitor to the Inquisition. My companion is Solas Lavellan, a brother escaped from the alienage in Starkhaven and come to my clan in the Free Marches, accompanying me on my quest to make safe the world to earn his _vallaslin._ We ask your leave to approach your camp." Solas is startled by the ease with which she lies for him, though her words leave a bitter taste in his mouth. For his part though, the Keeper nods and beckons them closer. 

"Welcome, sister," he says kindly. "It is good to see another of the People, in this place from which we all came." His eyes slide past her towards Solas and he nods in something like approval. "Look closely, friend, and learn of your history. You are in good company." Solas resists the urge to roll his eyes and bows his head instead. 

"Ma serranas, Keeper," he murmurs. 

"Ah, he has even learned some of the old tongue," the Keeper exclaims in delight. "Excellent! Now, _lethallan,_ what brings you here?" Solas takes this as an opportunity to drift away from the conversation, swallowing his rising resentment at the ignorance of the Dalish. _Learned some of the old tongue, indeed._ His hands ball up into fists at his sides. _Learn some of your history._ He remembers the birthing of the world, as far as these short-lived bastard children of a lost empire are concerned. Desperately clinging to traditions, to old ways that never were. He glances up at the enormous statue to Ghilan'nain that stretches above the camp, pointing ever forward, and then behind him to the countless stone wolves that watch their backs. Foolish children, all of them. 

"Solas?" The sound of her voice interrupts his increasingly vitriolic thoughts as he snaps back to attention. "Would you mind fetching the others? Keeper Hawen is graciously allowing us to make camp." He nods once and forces his voice to remain neutral. 

_"Ma nuvenin,_ Inquisitor," he says, before slipping away to find the humans. 

\---

That night, Illyria tells stories from Clan Lavellan and the Inquisition alike around the fire, while the Dalish hunters roast a ram they'd killed in honor of their guests. Solas is sure he's never seen a creature so completely at peace. Suddenly, despite his exasperation and relative contempt for the Dalish elves, he is glad to have found them. 

As she concludes her tale, Illyria invites the clansmen around her to share some of their own stories. Cole sits at her feet in rapt attention, eyes wide and watching. Solas and Illyria had explained to him that the clan would not understand some of his more...unique qualities, so thus far he has remained silent, but listening. Cassandra leans against a tree on the edge of camp, keeping respectful distance from the wary Dalish hunters, but enjoying the night with the rest of them. 

"Tell me, Solas." Keeper Hawen takes a seat next to him, smiling. "How do you enjoy the Dalish way of life? An improvement over the alienage, I should hope?" 

"Exceedingly so," he lies smoothly. "My life was a wretched one." Illyria's eyes find his over the fire and in them he can see a sort of apology. "But I have learned a great many things at the Inquisitor's side." Hawen nods in approval. 

"It is good to see lost children of the People return to the old ways," he says, oblivious to the incredible irony of his words. "Clan Lavellan was kind to take you in." 

"Very," he agrees mildly. "I endeavor always to earn my place among them." A young elf tending the fire looks up at Solas curiously. 

"When you get your _vallaslin,"_ he asks eagerly. "Which of the Creators will you choose to honor?" The lad's question - open, earnest, honest - twists painfully in his heart. He can't fathom it - enduring the searing pain, branding himself a slave just to prove he is a man. The question catches him so off guard, he realizes he's gone far too long without answering. 

"Stupid flat-ear doesn't even know," an elf to his right mutters bitterly. The group suddenly falls silent, still. Ah yes, he thinks, this is the Dalish hospitality he remembers. 

"Emalien," Hawen barks admonishingly. "These are our guests." He gestures vaguely in apology. "Please forgive her, my friends. Her brother has been missing for a few days now and she has been distraught." 

"Do not apologize for me, _hahren,"_ the girl snaps. "Our guests are less worthy of respect than the ram we killed to feed them." She shoots a hasty look at Illyria. _"Ir abelas,_ sister Lavellan, but you dishonor your people by cavorting with shemlen and a flat-ear who knows no more about our culture than a dog-" 

_"Enough."_ Once again, Solas watches Illyria transform before his eyes. Gone is the elf, behold the Inquisitor. The shift in her tone summons an authority that transcends all other petty truths about her and the log on which she sits may as well be her golden throne at Skyhold. How very small they must seem to her sometimes. 

Sensing her anger, Solas watches Cassandra tense imperceptibly, unquestioningly ready to follow her Inquisitor wherever the confrontation leads. Solas prepares to say something, anything, to diffuse the situation, but then he notices Cole's face, eyes wide and trained on Emalien.

"You tried to convince him not to go," he murmurs, low and gentle. "He wanted to prove himself, wanted you to be _proud_ of him." Emalien's mouth falls open, groping for a response that will not come to her. Cole looks up at Illyria. 

"Scared, frustrated, helpless." His voice is urgent, but soft. "Angry because we remind her of what she has lost. Family." 

In the wake of Cole's words, the camp is still and time is a construct that does not really seem to apply to them as everyone waits. Then Illyria sighs, deeply and heavily, and everything that she is seems to deflate until the only thing left is a weariness that reaches the core of her. 

"May you find answers and peace, _da'len,"_ she says at last, turning her eyes on Emalien. _"Dirth'ala ma._ Life is not so simple." She offers a small smile to Hawen. "I believe it is past time for my people to retire. _Ma serranas_ again, Keeper, for your hospitality. In the morning, I shall look into the issues we discussed." Without another word, she rises to her feet and sets off in the direction of the little camp they set up on the riverbank. The rest of them follow with heavy hearts. 

She spends the night in his tent. They do not touch, they do not speak, but the closeness is comforting to them both. 

When he awakes, she is gone - not only from his tent, but from the whole camp. He panics momentarily before he sees her approaching the Dalish landships. He's not sure how long she has been gone, but she is dressed in full armor and her robes are caked in dried blood. She's holding something in her hands - a bundle of some kind - and she hands it to the angry young girl from the night before. Emalien accepts it uncertainly before falling to her knees in a heap of silent sobs. Illyria kneels beside her, murmuring things he cannot hear, and wraps the girl in her arms. 

Solas turns away back to his tent and thinks about wisdom, mercy, and love. 

_\---_

Most days, Illyria is reasonably certain she doesn't understand anything. The ways of the shemlen are sometimes mysterious to her and the more she learns of them, the further away from the People she feels. Talking with Solas relieves that feeling most of the time, but more often she is sure she understands him least of all. For all that they speak on every topic imaginable, there are times he seems so alien to her, so foreign, that the halls of Skyhold are far lonelier than they have any right to be. 

She knows he lies to her about a great many things, or at the very least, he liberally edits the truth. She's known this for a long time now, but for the most part she is content to wait. She's already discovered that pressuring him for information will get her nowhere, so she's settled in for the long, slow search for truth, sustained by the faith that one day he will trust her. 

In the meantime, she carries on, cutting a swathe across Thedas, imposing her will on the unsuspecting world, and praying to any god still alive to listen that she is making the right choices. When it is late and she feels the weight of the day most, she ponders the space in her heart that she's set aside for Solas. It is in these moments that she seeks him out, drawn to the warmth and sound and familiarity of him. Though she tries to respect his wishes and considerations, some nights she cannot stay away. 

But as best she can, she remains distant. The demands of the Inquisition leave little time for distraction. And he is nothing if not a distraction. She hardens her heart, focuses on the future of the world, and congratulates herself on her professionalism. 

So she is very surprised at the rage that floods her when the young Dalish chit begins slinging slurs at _him._ It is Cole's insight only that keeps her from very possibly irrevocably damaging relations with this particular clan. In the morning, before even the sun has touched the world, she rises to scout out the young girl's brother. It is the only thing that eases her heart and salves her shame. She's not sure what she expects to find, but she's not surprised to discover the boy's corpse. She brings back his belongings to his sister, glosses over the circumstances of his death, and holds Emalien close while she cries. "He was brave," she keeps whispering. "He was so brave." 

When she returns to the camp, Solas is standing at the entrance of his tent, watching her, gaze remote and unfathomable. She wonders if she should explain herself, but then decides - as she always does - that she doesn't need to. She makes to walk past him, but he holds out a hand to stop her. 

"Are you well, Inquisitor?" She often falters at the question. He is the only one that ever seems to ask. 

"I am." They both know that's not true. She tries again. "It is good to see my People again." She pauses. "I don't imagine you feel the same." The words come out more bitterly than she intends. Solas frowns. 

"If I have learned anything from you," he says slowly, seeming to weigh each word carefully. "It is that many should not be condemned for the actions of a few. I have always been hasty in my judgments. You...never are. As you say, life is not so simple." 

Not for the first time, Illyria senses some hidden weight to his words, as though he means something far more than what his words alone imply. But she cannot guess at what he means, so she does not press him further. 

"I do what I can." He smiles, a sight so rare it eases the heaviness in her. 

"It is enough." 

_\---_

She awakes in Solas' tent. This is not unusual. Many nights end in his company and she is always sure to leave before dawn. But this is not the same. 

It is still well into the night; sunrise is several hours off yet. At first she is not sure what rouses her. There's a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, some anxiety that she cannot name. Then she hears it. 

She's always been fascinated by the way Solas sleeps: on his back, straight as a board, hands laced together and resting on his stomach. She'd think he was dead if not for the occasional snore. But tonight, Solas is curled up on his side, hands balled into fists in front of his face. His breath comes in ragged gasps, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead despite the cool night air. She can feel his magic swirling in the Fade and she wonders what dream could plague him that would cause the anguish etched across his face like scars. 

_"Atish,_ Solas," she whispers, scooching closer to him, tentatively placing a hand on his chest. "Wake up. It is only a dream." 

At her touch, Solas' eyes fly open. He jolts upright, chest heaving. She is astonished to see his eyes are bright with tears. 

"Illyria." He breathes her name like a prayer. She cups the side of his face in her hand and his breathing slows. 

_"Ea son,_ Solas? Are you okay?" He does not answer her, eyes closed, breathing carefully controlled, face schooled once again into a neutral expression. When he opens his eyes again, they are dry. 

"No." His voice is hoarse. "I think… I may need to ask you for a favor." 

"Of course," she replies automatically. "You have only to ask." 

_\---_

At this point in her life, there is little that surprises her. Go politely ask a luck-bringing rainbow colored ram to go home? Sure. Travel forward in time and get to see all of the enemy's plans before they come to pass? Fantastic. Defeat an ancient Tevinter magister who stormed the Black City in search of a dead shemlen god? Alright then. She often thinks she's losing her ability to be completely caught off guard. This...well, this is nothing. 

Solas explains to her that his friend - a spirit of wisdom - had been wrenched from the Fade by a group of mages. He had heard his friend's screams echoing across the Fade as he slept and begs her now to go to rescue the spirit. She agrees easily (her friends have asked stranger things of her) and she rouses Cassandra and Cole from their sleep, quietly explaining in as little detail as possible that they're needed. They comply without question. 

What she doesn't expect is the _rage._ Solas has always seemed to have the emotional range of an unused history book - dusty, dry, but full of facts. But as they near the place where his friend has been captured, they stumble across a mage's body, and then a bandit's, and as the picture comes together for both of them, Solas is visibly shaking. 

Then they see it - twisted, hulking, monstrous - a Pride demon thrashing in the center of four pillars. Solas growls - ferocious, feral - at the sight, his face a mixture of heartbreak and fury. 

"Everything here is blurry." Cole's voice is pained. "It wants to forget, but now the rocks are solid." He shakes his head and looks at Solas. "Wisdom always becomes Pride." 

Illyria ignores him and looks pointedly at the binding circle. "The mages corrupted your friend." Solas looks down at his hands, expression unreadable. 

"Yes." Short, bitter, resigned. Her heart breaks for him, but now is not the time. His head jerks up suddenly and she follows his gaze to see a mage approaching them. 

"A mage!" the man exclaims. "You're not with the bandits? Do you have any lyrium potions? Most of us are exhausted. We've been fighting that demon…" 

"You _summoned_ that demon," Solas spits. His hands are wrapped so tightly around his staff, his knuckles are bleached white in the approaching dawn. "You made it kill." His voice breaks. "You twisted it against its purpose!" Illyria can see the raw energy of the Fade swirling and writhing around him and for a moment, she is afraid. Then the _dahn’direlan_ mage does the worst thing he could possibly do… he argues with him. 

"I...I understand how it might be confusing to someone who has not studied demons, but after you help us, I can…" 

"We are not here to help _you,"_ Solas barks, impatient. 

"Word of advice," Illyria pipes up. "I'd hold off on explaining how demons work to my friend here." The man bristles, seeming to forget that he's in no position to negotiate. 

"Listen to me," he sneers. "I was one of the foremost experts in the Kirkwall Circle, I -" 

Solas' voice is deadly, quiet, and brooks no argument. _"Shut. Up."_ He turns his eyes on Illyria, dismissing the man's existence entirely. "They summoned it to protect them from the bandits, bound it in the summoning circle, and forced it to kill. If we destroy the summoning circle, we break the binding. No orders to kill, no conflict with its nature. No demon." 

"What?" the mage blurts. "The binding is the only thing keeping the demon from killing us! Whatever it was before, it is a monster now." 

_"Inquisitor."_ She's not sure she has ever heard a man so desperate. "Illyria, _please."_ She looks back to the demon and thinks of her friend, far away in the forests of the Free Marches, shooing game towards her clan. She thinks of the matchmaking spirit that fostered love in a lonely place. She thinks of Cole, existing only to make the world better. Finally she thinks of Solas. And as she meets his gaze she realizes that no power in Thedas could make her refuse him. 

_\---_

When it is over, the only thing that remains is a woman. A green wisp of a thing, eyes shining with magic, on her knees in the center of what once bound her. Illyria holds up a hand to tell Cassandra and Cole to stay back as she approaches two friends in mourning. They murmur together in an elvish she barely understands, before finally the spirit fades away with a wave of Solas' hands. He remains still for a long moment. 

_"Ir abelas,_ Solas." She places a hand uncertainly on his shoulder and squeezes gently. "You did everything you could." 

"Now I must endure." He releases a deep breath and rises to his feet, turning to her. "Thank you, for what you have done for me." For a moment, his eyes gaze at her with such softness and grief that she longs to close the distance between them and take him into her arms. But the moment passes, his eyes harden, and he seems as far away from her as the spirit that just dissolved into the Fade. 

"All that remains now is _them."_

There's something primal in his voice, rage of which she had never conceived Solas capable rising to the surface. His eyes flick from the mages and back to her and all at once she understands. 

"Cassandra, Cole," she calls, fighting to keep her voice even. "Go back to the camp. I'll meet you there." Cassandra opens her mouth to protest, but Illyria silences her with a look. _"Now."_

She doesn't hear the mages sputtering in paltry defense of themselves, doesn't see them backing away as Solas stalks towards them like some predator at hunt. All she can hear is the roaring of her heart in her ears, all she can see is the surge of magic from the Fade, furious and final, immolating them where they stand. When they are naught but ash and regret, Solas' rage flows out of him like water, and all that remains is a man. 

He doesn't look at her when he walks away with nothing but the echo of a promise that she'll see him again. She watches him leave until he's a speck in the distance. When at last he has disappeared from view, she turns away to begin the long walk back to camp and she thinks about wisdom, mercy, and love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's that. Sorry for the monster chapter. I wanted to explore Illyria's POV more here and I thought Solas' personal quest "All New, Faded for Her" would be a good place to do that, while also paralleling the way they interact with each other. Thanks for sticking with me thus far. This is the end of the first part in my series, "What Dreams May Come." Please keep on the lookout for the update to the new series - I love when you guys read. 
> 
> Relevant Elvish -
> 
> Enansal - gift or blessing
> 
> Tuelanen i'na , Amelan - Creators be with you, Keeper
> 
> Andaran atish'an - Greetings, Welcome, The place you go is a safe place.
> 
> Ma serranas - Thank you
> 
> Ma nuvenin - As you wish/Very well
> 
> Dirth'ala ma - May you learn.
> 
> Atish - Peace
> 
> Ea son - Are you well?
> 
> Dahn'direlan - idiot
> 
> Ir abelas - I am sorry
> 
> **All elvish, as always, is thanks to Project Elvhen.


End file.
